The Investigator (Letty Davenport, #1) (38)

“You think they might be related to the Blackburn homicides?”

“They could be, but we don’t know,” Letty said. “DHS was told that a Chevron security team heard a rumor that Low was involved in the oil thefts. Now Blackburn was probably murdered because of the oil thefts. So the connection is a rumor.”

Tanner pinched his already narrow nose, thinking about it, then said, “Okay. Monahans is only about an hour from here. Why don’t we run down and ask them about it? We can bust Low if we find him, for violating his parole.”

Letty shrugged: “I’d like to stop at a Stripes and get an ice cream and a Coke, but I’m good to go.”

Kaiser: “What she said.”

“I know an investigator for the Monahans PD,” Tanner said. “I’ll call her, see if she can go along.”



* * *





They went down in two cars, in heavy truck traffic, Tanner leading, made a quick stop at a Stripes, where all three of them got ice-cream bars, and Letty added a Coke and Kaiser got a Diet Pepsi, and they continued south through Odessa and another thirty-five miles or so into Monahans.

As they followed Tanner, Letty looked out at the highway and asked, “You know how you can tell Texas has low taxes? Because they don’t pick up any of the crap that gets thrown on the highway. Road gators everywhere, those white plastic bags hung up in the weeds everywhere. Everywhere. Like some kind of bizarre flowers.”

Kaiser: “Says the fuckin’ California snowflake . . . Of course, you’re right. Texas magnolias.”

“Texas magnolias,” Letty repeated. “I like it.”



* * *





Monahans looked mostly like a dusty intersection with dusty intersection businesses; and later like a flat dusty town with buildings and housing scattered around somewhat haphazardly, with ninety percent of the structures either yellow or beige.

The Monahans investigator, a woman named Casey Pugh, was waiting at the edge of town, waved at Tanner when he slowed at the end of the off-ramp, then followed their little convoy to a tiny beige house on South Allen Avenue. The house might have been built during World War II and was worn by time and neglect. The only decoration was a narrow wooden two-step stoop that led up to the front door.

They parked and got out of their cars. The house was surrounded by a chain-link fence, with a worn spot in the dead grass around a single tired evergreen tree. A sign on the gate said bad dog, and a chain was looped around the tree, but nothing was on the end of it.

Tanner introduced Letty and Kaiser to Pugh. Tanner and Pugh had spoken by phone on the way down, and Pugh had been filled in on the Blackburn murders, the oil thefts, and the possibility that Max Sawyer might know something about it.

Pugh was a parched-looking woman, tight through the jaw, with blunt cheekbones under deep-set eyes, and had a solid Texas accent. She said, “Might not be anybody here, but if there is, watch out for the dog. Hate messing with dogs. They’re my best friends, truth be told. I got four, but you put them with a bad guy . . .”

“We had Belgian Malinois in Iraq,” Kaiser agreed, putting a hand on the top rail of the fence. “You don’t want one of those bad boys hanging from your throat.”

They all looked at the house for another minute, then Tanner said, “Fuck it. I don’t see a dog,” and unlatched the gate and stepped through. The other three lined up behind him, but as Tanner started up the dirt path leading to the front door, a white-and-pink pit bull came out from under the stoop like a rocket and, without a single bark or whine, hit Tanner in the upper leg, knocking him down.

Tanner screamed and thrashed, the dog’s jaws sunk deep in his thigh, its head whipping back and forth, ripping Tanner’s leg. Kaiser shoved Letty and Pugh aside and grabbed the dog by its hind legs and lifted it straight up.

The pit let go of Tanner and twisted to bite Kaiser, but Kaiser threw it over the fence and shouted at Letty and Pugh, “Inside, inside,” and when they were through the gate, slammed it. The pit hit the fence, but it was too high for the dog to get over. Tanner, pushing himself to his feet, pulled his gun and, stumbling to the gate, as Kaiser and Pugh shouted “No!,” shot the dog in the head.

The dog dropped and Tanner went down at the same time, groaning, and Letty shouted into a sudden silence, “He’s hurt, he’s hurt.”

A double-hand-sized bloodstain was already spreading across Tanner’s pant leg, and Kaiser pushed Tanner flat and said, “Let me look, let me look.”

He pushed his fingers through dog-bite holes in Tanner’s pant leg and ripped the fabric, wiped Tanner’s leg with his hand, turned to Pugh and said, “He’s pumping blood. The dog hit his femoral artery. Didn’t rip it open, probably poked a hole in it. You got a hospital here?”

“Yes—Ward Memorial.”

“Got to get him there, right now,” Kaiser said. “Let’s put him in your car, you drive . . . I’ll keep pressure.”

A short, square-shouldered blond man exploded out of the house, a pistol in his hand. He was wearing an Army-green T-shirt with a Walther logo. “Who fired . . . Did you shoot my dog?”

Pugh pointed a finger at him. “You’re under arrest. You’re under arrest. Drop the gun.”

“Fuck that,” the man shouted. “Who the fuck are you?”